


These Last Few Weeks

by xmarisolx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmarisolx/pseuds/xmarisolx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, um, just how did Sherlock and Janine get together?  This is the story of how they first reconnected, how they became a couple, and what happened in that bath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scenes between Episode 3.2 (“The Sign of Three”) and 3.3 (“His Last Vow”). I must give massive praise and props to my Britpickers: sleeping_lions and Coto. Without these two, Sherlock might have been walking around London with nothing on but a vest and pants.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sherlock is a British crime drama created by Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, and is produced by them along with Beryl Vertue, Rebecca Eaton, Bethan Jones, and Sue Vertue. The programme is based on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It is a BBC production, and airs on BBC1. All characters, plots and creative elements derived from the source material belong exclusively to their respective owners. I, the author of this fan fiction, do not, in any way, profit monetarily from this story.

“Sher- _lock_!”

That shrill, sing-song voice was the bane of his existence.  Sherlock jumped from the sofa, yanking the door open just in time to see Mrs Hudson standing there with her hand poised to knock.

“Mrs Hudson,” he began, all irritation. “I thought I told you to refrain from speaking to me during any evening hour after six.”

“You have a visitor,” she said, undaunted, “a client.”

“My instructions were clear: take a message.”

“I’m not your secretary.”

“I thought you weren’t my housekeeper.”

“I’m not your housekeeper, either.”

“Hello, Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock glanced behind Mrs Hudson—who was scurrying away—and found a woman approaching, a woman just a hair beyond middle-age with thin, blonde-dyed hair.  She was dressed in an austere ensemble only suitable for the severest of occupations.  There was a wedding ring on her left hand, so she’d married, although her gait suggested that she’d never experienced childbirth.  She carried herself with a simultaneously posh and defensive demeanour, which indicated that she was a person of just enough influence to draw the constant disdain of everyone around her. She was likely a public figure, and at this hour, a public figure whose personal life was putting her position in jeopardy.

Verdict: not interested.

“I’m sorry.  You’ve missed tea,” he said abruptly, and went to slam the door when she uttered,

“Magnussen.”

The mere mention of the name rattled Sherlock, and he froze mid-slam, leaving just a sliver of space between the door and doorframe. Slowly, he opened it again, levelling an intrigued glare at the pleading eyes before him.

“What did you say?”

“I’m afraid I need your help, Mr Holmes.”

“Come in,” he said, leaving the door open and retreating to his chair.  She...followed.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock only took the tube when cabs were unavailable, which was just short of never. Though public transport was more economical, he was averse to its more questionable amenities: the queues, the delays, the multiple stops.  A taxi, however, took one directly to his or her destination in relative peace and quiet.  Additionally, the regular use of taxis had an added advantage: cabbies often had dodgy histories—the odd one even occasionally emerged from the ranks of Sherlock’s homeless network—and thus they often availed themselves of the services of a certain consulting detective.  Over time, he had developed a rapport with enough of them that his fare was often reduced, if not free.  The tedious and petty nature of their cases typically redeemed themselves in reduced travel costs for Sherlock.

This general policy notwithstanding, today he found himself in the Underground.

“Mind the gap,” he scoffed to himself ( _Must that even be clarified?_ ), then took another glance at his phone.  This line was reputed to run four minutes late during rush hour, however—

There was a stir of air and the rallying sound of carriages coming down the tracks.  Persons waiting idly by began to gather themselves, their things and their offspring, preparing to board.  With a _whoosh_ , the carriage came to a stop.  The doors opened, people got off, and then others (Sherlock included) entered the train.  He surveyed the passengers and—to his delight—saw exactly what he expected: a raven-haired woman of curvaceous build seated in the far right corner, bent over and reading what appeared to be a romance novel.  It was apparently engrossing enough that she’d not yet noticed that her white-leather handbag had slid a full metre from her feet.

Sherlock positioned himself nearby, leaning against a pole with his back to her. He retrieved the newspaper he’d tucked under his arm and opened it boisterously, shaking the pages open with a billowing motion.  He cleared his throat loudly for added effect, and pretended (at great effort) to be enthralled by...the latest exploits of Manchester United.

“Sherlock?”

The voice clearly belonged to Janine, and he mentally debated whether it would be to his advantage to reply immediately or to have her call to him again.  Turning around quickly might suggest anticipation of being called and thus betray the ruse, although failure to respond immediately might cause her to doubt herself and abandon summoning him altogether.  In the span of a second, he decided to wait—a decision that was rendered moot when he felt a tap on the shoulder.

“Janine?” he said, turning around, feigned surprise registering on every crevice of his face.  He refolded the newspaper. “How nice to see you.”

“And you,” she said, grabbing the pole.  “What are you doing here?”

 _So the inane banter begins now_ , he thought.  “Oh, you know, just popping out for a bit of shopping.  At Tesco’s.  Figured I’d take the tube.”

“Brilliant,” she said with unjustifiable enthusiasm and tapped his arm.  “Funny we should meet-up—this is my daily route to work.”

“Is it?” he asked, mirroring her jovial expression despite knowing full-well which route she took and having chosen it for that exact reason.  “I had no idea, or I else might have gone a different way.”

The dig elicited mutual laughter, followed by awkward silence.

“I read the blog,” she said suddenly, patting him on the arm again, an act of flirtation and tell-tell sign of sexual attraction. This would be easier than he thought.  “It was a laugh.”

“I’m sorry, blog?”

“Yeah, about the...” She took a surreptitious look round before continuing, whispering.  “The sex holiday.”

“Right, the blog,” Sherlock said, with sudden recognition.  He ducked his head in faux embarrassment.  “You read that?”

“I did, you naughty boy.”  Giggle, followed by a rapier sharp nail to the chest.

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a drawl.  “Naughty me.”  This was torture. This thirty-second conversation had been more agonising that being lashed to death by Serbian thugs.  How would he ever endure the pretence of an actual relationship?  First, he had to ask her out _._ “So, Jan—”

“Are John and Mary back from their honeymoon?” she asked.

“Ah, no,” he said.  “They have a couple of days yet.”

“I know you miss them,” she said, followed by a flip of her hair.

“I, um, I’ll manage.” On to business. “So, uh, Jan—”

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” 

Yet another interruption.  The thusly accused and Janine looked down to find a tow-headed young boy with sleepy eyes, no more than six years old, wearing a deerstalker and staring up at them. 

“Are you the real Sherlock Holmes?” he asked again.

“The one, the only,” Sherlock replied.

A woman who could only be assumed to be the boys’ mother approached.  “I’m sorry if he’s bothering you. He just loves detectives and he’s a big fan of yours.  He reads the blog.”

“Everyone does, apparently,” he muttered.

“A fan!” Janine said, clearly thrilled with the notion.  “You have fans?” she asked.

“Seems so,” he said.  “Well, good day young man,” he said and tentatively patted the boy on the head a couple of times before purposefully turning around and facing Janine. “So, yes, Jan—”

“Can you sign my hat?” the boy asked.

Three deep breaths. “I don’t typically sign... _things_ ,” Sherlock said.

“Aw,” Janine cooed.  “How can you say ‘no’ to that little face?”

 _Easily_ , he thought.  “Indeed I can’t,” is what he actually said.  “Have you a pen?” he asked the boy.

“Yes,” his mother answered, extracting a black marker from her immense handbag. “Here.”

Sherlock took the writing utensil and, after removing the cap, put his signature to the brim of his young fan’s hat.  “There you are,” he said and put forth the effort to smile.  The smile was returned and the boy removed the hat, staring at it fondly.

“What do you say, Alfie?” the mother chided gently.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” the boy said.

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said, now officially having expended all patience.  He turned to Janine, determined to take the reins of this conversation, only to be treated to a woman who practically had hearts for pupils.

“You’re so good with children,” she sighed.

“They’re delightful,” he lied. “So I was going to ask you—“

Both of them took an uncertain step as the train came to a stop.

“I get off here,” she said with a smile.  “It has been very nice seeing you. And so soon after the wedding, no less!”

“Actually,” Sherlock said, tucking his newspaper back under his arm. “This is my stop as well.”  He motioned for her to alight first, an invitation she accepted whilst looking at him oddly.

“I thought you were going to Tesco’s.”

“I am,” Sherlock said.

“But Tesco’s is the next stop,” she said.

“Uh, right, um...well, it’s a nice day. A bit of a walk would do me good.”

“I imagine you’re right,” she said.  There was brief a pause, and then they both went to speak at the same time.

“You first,” she said.

He thought it might be polite to say, “No, ladies first,” but the fact that he actually didn’t care what she had to say won out in the end.  “Right, so, how is it going between um, you and...” He groped for a name that was long gone.

“I’m sorry, whom?” she asked.

“The young man from the wedding?”

“Ah, Trevor. I’m afraid we didn’t get on.”

“No!” Sherlock said, affecting a pained expression. “I’m...I’m sorry to hear that.”

“We’ve not talked since the reception.”  She drew a pace closer.  “Why?”

“Um, well,”—more pretending—“I’m aware I made some harsh remarks at the wedding about love and beauty and all, but...” He paused for effect, just as the blog he’d read had suggested.  It worked like a charm.  Her lips parted, entranced.

“But what?” she asked.

“But I’m afraid that, ever since the reception, I’ve not been able to get you out of my mind.” True, in a way.

She gave him a delicate smile and drew even closer.  “Honestly, I’ve thought of you quite a bit as well.”

“Really?” he said.  “Then, please don’t think me forward, but...I would love it if we could have dinner together, perhaps...this evening?”

She nodded warmly.  “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  What were you thinking?”

“Um, fish and chips.”  Extra portions would make this quick and economical.  However, he noticed a twitch in her face.  His first misstep. “Or, uh, I meant—”

“No,” she said.  “Fish and chips is fine.  It’ll be fun.”

* * *

After a promising “first date” with Janine—that amounted to sharing a fizzy drink and chips on a park bench whilst giggling about the mundane and ordinary—Sherlock rushed home (by taxi, this time) to pour over the information he was slowly amassing regarding the case.  Charles Augustus Magnussen had been on the fringes of his radar for years, but never sufficiently enough to take action.  However, in the wake of John’s wedding and a dearth of enticing cases, the visit from Lady Smallwood had been just what the doctor ordered.  Quickly, Sherlock had been both thrilled and repulsed by what he found.  Magnussen was careful, and his acts of intimidation were well-concealed, but any astute observer (read: Sherlock) could easily divine that the man had truly earned his reputation as “The Napoleon of Blackmail.”  Suicides, coercions, imprisonment, and damning newspaper “exposés” were just a sampling of the dreaded fallout in store for any of his victims who failed to comply with his demands.  But no matter, Magnussen always left smelling like a rose.  _Disgusting_.  Sherlock knew he would never be able to successfully request audience with him to negotiate the return of the letters; instead, he would have to lure Magnussen.

“Yoo-hoo.”

It was the familiar sound of Mrs Hudson invading his privacy.

“Morning, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson practically chirped as she walked in, a stack of envelopes in hand. 

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, typing furiously. “This may be a new thought for you, but one you should heed: doors were made to keep people out.”

“Funny,” she said, advancing forward, “I always thought they were made to keep people in.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” he said. 

“Either way, here’s your post.”  She walked over dropping them next to where he worked at his desk; he didn’t even acknowledge them. “You might want to look at this one,” she said, plucking a yellow envelope from the stack.  “It’s marked ‘Urgent.’ I reckon you should—”

“I really can’t be bothered with idle chatter this morning, Mrs Hudson,” he said, without breaking contact with his screen.  “Focus.  I require focus.”

“A nice murder then, is it?” she said, incongruously jolly.

“No,” he said with a sharp draw of breath.  “Something better.”

“Better than a _murder_?” she said, the timbre of her voice rising with disbelief.  “Ah, serial murder.”

Sherlock turned to her, his eyes practically glistening with delight.  “Blackmail.”   He punctuated the statement with a toothless grin that stretched facetiously from ear to ear.  A clicking sound could be heard in the kitchen and Sherlock suddenly rose, making his way in that direction.

“Kettle’s just boiled,” Mrs Hudson said with a giggle.

“Obvious,” he muttered.

“Expecting someone?” she asked, having a seat on the couch.

“Clearly.”  He removed two cups and their accompanying saucers from the cupboard.

“A client?”

 _Sigh_.  “No.”

Her interest was piqued. “A friend, then.”

“Of sorts,” he said, then hurried to the door and opened it wide. It was a rather unsubtle invitation for her to leave.

“I suppose I’ll be on my way,” she said, moving towards the door.  “Wouldn’t want to disturb you while you’re having company.”

“Wouldn’t you?” he said, and almost shut the door, when he suddenly opened it again.  “Mrs Hudson, would you happen to have any biscuits?”

She turned around.  “I think I might have.”

“Bring me a sufficient quantity for two and then don’t return for at least two hours.  If there’s a God, I’ll only need one hour.”

“ _Please_ ,” she said as a gentle reminder.

“Please what?” he asked.  “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Never mind,” she said, and headed down the stairs. He might have heard her mumbling something about his mother.

* * *

“So,” Janine asked, having a sip from her tea as her eyes took survey of her surroundings, “you live here?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, just barely repressing the urge to say something “smart.” He’d moved John’s chair upstairs, tacitly encouraging Janine to sit with him on the couch—a plan that had worked.  This “affair” would only last until he had the letters in hand, and if he were to be able to plausibly propose marriage after such a brief acquaintance, intimacy ( _sexless_ intimacy, mind) must be developed rapidly.  “Biscuit?” he offered, extending to her a plate filled with several.  She hesitated a brief moment before lifting one and bringing it between her teeth.

“I could stand to lose a stone or so,” she said before biting it.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said, returning the plate to the coffee table.  “You look lovely.”  The statement won him a contented look.

“You’re sweet,” she said.

He nodded once, with a smile.  All the smiling...it was fatiguing. 

There was a lull in conversation, and he strove to fill it with— _What did the magazine say?_ —“topics that showed personal interest.”

“So, you’re working then?” he asked.  She nodded.  “May I ask what you do?”

“I’m a PA,” she replied, smiling brightly.  “I work for a prestigious newspaper owner: Charles Augustus Magnussen.  Heard of him?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Sherlock said, and took a sip of his tea.

“He’s a Danish fellow with quite a bit of power in the media.  He’s a bit cold for my liking, but it’s a job, and one I’m rather good at, if I do say so myself.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said, and then reflected on how she might receive that statement.  “I meant that sincerely.”

“I took it sincerely.”

“Good,” he said.

Her face settled into a satisfied gaze.  She brought her tea down to her lap. “I know this is only our third, well, date,” she said.

“Only three?” he said.  “Feels like we’ve known each other for ages.”

“I feel the same way,” she said, somehow relieved. “But, uh,” she placed a hand on his knee.   _Uninvited touching_.  He mirrored her body language, and placed his own hand on top.  “I want you to know that, I feel what we have is very special and I’m really enjoying this.”

“I, of course, feel the same way,” Sherlock said.

“Good,” she said smiling.  “Good.”

* * *

Sherlock approached the house with caution, and then knocked firmly, three times, on the door. Built in the 1920s, it was the former home of an illustrious naval man, and he had commissioned its construction during the waning years of the Edwardian era.  It was a famed location for many a social fete of its day, and all sorts of persons of considerable status had flocked there for merriment, libation and the occasional scandal.  These days, its legacy of revelry lived on in the form of a den for drug addicts of all kinds.  Sherlock knocked again and, at last, the door opened—if only slightly.

“Shezza,” Sherlock muttered to the half-face peering at him from behind the crack.

“I dunno any Shezza,” the doorman replied. Sherlock gave the junkie a quick scan: dirty (homeless), thin (diminished appetite), pale (excessive time spent indoors), and bearded (irregular access to hygienic facilities). Embarrassingly typical.

“Let me in,” Sherlock said, pressing against the door.

“Get outta ‘ere!” the shadowed face yelled back.  When Sherlock didn’t budge, he found himself staring at a knife.  He took a step back as the man leaned forward, both actions giving Sherlock a better view of his adversary: clear eyes (pearly white), badly chewed nails (too anxious for a junkie), and— _sniff_ —a shocking lack of drug-related odour.  So... _not_ a user.  Dealer, then?  As Sherlock made his rapid deductions, the doorman—as if in slow motion—absently scratched at the leg of his trousers, inadvertently revealing his bare ankles.  Sherlock narrowed his eyes at several orange-labelled ampoules sticking out of the man’s sockless shoes. It was a substance Sherlock had seen before: Naloxone. Far from the party drugs these men craved, Naloxone was an “opiod antagonist,” an antidote given to overdosed smackheads who’d “shot-up” one too many times.

Suddenly, it all made sense: this man was neither a user nor a dealer.  He was a chemist.  He wasn’t in the business of putting men down—he was in the business of bringing them back. 

“What’re you lookin’ at?” he said with a sneer, apparently put off by Sherlock’s rather shameless ogling.

“Forty quid,” Sherlock offered, and for the first time in their brief acquaintance, he got no response.  Four tenners was a small amount, but it was hardly Sherlock’s fault this man had chosen one of the less lucrative professions of the drugs industry.  “Fine, sixty.”

“How I know you ain’t one of ‘em pigs come to haul me off?”

“Would a policeman have this?”  He opened the palm of his hand, revealing two syringes and couple of unmarked, glass vials.  Even so, any den guard worth his salt would know what he had.

“Where the hell you get that shit?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Sherlock said.  “Let me in.”

Backing up, he slowly opened the door.

* * *

If Sherlock were to summon Magnussen—or come onto his sights, as it were—he would have to manufacture a weakness, a vulnerability, a “pressure point”  that was plausible enough to satisfy Magnussen’s penchant for blackmail, but that Sherlock could effectively manage.  Fortunately for him (under the circumstances, anyway), Sherlock was known in some circles as a former drug addict and so already had an available weak spot: cocaine. 

She was Sherlock’s first love, his old flame, his Achilles heel, and his drug of choice.  In the dark years following university, the white powder had provided a welcome reprieve from the oppressive fog of meaningless activity and idle days.  Uninterested in maintaining “respectable” employment, and unstimulated to the point of madness, he had succumbed to the knowledge that seduced many an educated chemist, and welcomed the substance into his life with ever-lessening reserve.  Why?  Because when the drug was coursing through his veins, it made him feel alert, stimulated, sharper and, above all else, _not bored_.

Like most quick fixes, however, such highs had come at an even higher price, not the least of which was the infuriating indignity of having Mycroft seize control of his life and coerce him to enter a rehab facility.  It was a coup facilitated by the then-recently appointed Detective Inspector Lestrade.  Additionally, the memory of his mother’s tear-stained face, as she watched him trembling and sweating in the backseat of his parents’ car, was a scene Sherlock would rather leave behind.

Pressure point or not, returning to his former chemical courtesan would be too dangerous.  After some reflection, however, he decided that opiates might be an amenable alternative: there wasn’t much of a crash afterwards and it took longer to get addicted to them.  He’d have the letters in hand and a new case long before that could happen.  Unfortunately, opiates were also stupid.  Sherlock never understood the appeal of downers; he enjoyed feeling sedate and lethargic about as much as he loved tea without milk, which is to say, not as much.  Additionally, while opiates (and their synthetic cousins, opioids) proffered several options, he soon discovered that most of them were unsuitable: codeine was legal, methadone was boring, oxycodone wasn’t strong enough, and heroin was, well, a beast he’d rather not awaken.  Morphine remained.  He preferred the injectable kind, as he could personally regulate the dosage, but that also made it the most difficult kind to find illegally.  Difficult, that is, if one was not Sherlock Holmes, and thus privy to an extensive homeless network of vagabonds with dubious morals and a propensity for accepting bribes.  Sherlock calculated that, if he was careless enough about procuring the drugs, and spent enough time in the den, rumours would be soon to follow, maybe even capturing the attention of one particular newspaper owner.

Only one challenge remained: the difficulty of coordinating his managed drug habit with his managed relationship with Janine.

He was trudging up the stairs one morning, having returned from his role as “Shezza” when he found Janine standing in front of his door.

“Janine?” he said.

She turned around, bright eyed-and bushy tailed, bearing two paper cups, and a small, white paper bag. Despite the hour and his compromised state, he still managed to deduce that she had come bearing coffee and some sort of confection—perhaps a pastry, maybe a croissant or even a danish, but from what he knew of Janine, likely _pain au chocolat_.  The crumbs on her jacket suggested she’s eaten one en route. “What are you doing up?” she asked with a cheeriness that inspired in him homicidal thoughts; he just barely managed to submerge them.

“I was working,” he mumbled, the morphine high having faded into whatever this was—a dull mental miasma.

“Poor thing,” she cooed.  He shuffled past her to unlock the door, and remembered just in time to let her enter first.  “I thought I’d bring coffee and _pain au chocolat_ ,”— _correct once again_ — “for us to have for breakfast, but you, sir, should be off to bed.”

He walked in, dropping his keys to his desk, and pulled down the hood to his oversized jacket.  “Don’t you have work?”

“Ah,” she said, placing the food stuff on the table.  “My schedule changes according to the whims of Mr Magnussen. He’s requested that I come in today at half eleven.  I thought I’d spend a couple of hours with you first.”

“Splendid,” Sherlock said, not entirely hiding his discontent. 

“Awww,” she said, reading his tone as fatigue.  “Let’s get you to bed.  Off you go.”  She placed two hands on his back and pushed gently, leading him to the bedroom. He thought she would stop at the door, but instead, soldiered right in, helping him disrobe by removing his jacket and then pulling his shirt over his head.  She lowered her hands to his waist and unbuttoned his trousers, then stopped, looking up at him with a coy smile.  “What’s in there?” she purred, biting her bottom lip.

This again.  Two weeks in, their relationship remained unconsummated, and it was becoming increasingly clearer that she was eager to end this trend. 

Sherlock mitigated her advances by lowering his head and kissing her gently on the lips.  It was a lazy kiss that lingered on, despite his questionable hygiene.  When they broke apart, he looked down bashfully.

“I’m repulsive,” he said.

“You’re not,” she said, rubbing her fingers up and down the length of his bare arms.  “I like a man who works hard and comes home dirty.”  She brushed her knuckles along his jaw.  “A little stubble gets me a bit hot under the collar.”

“Does it?” he said, smirking.

She reached up for another kiss, a much more determined one, and Sherlock could feel her tongue slip past his lips. His own arms dangled by his side as she continued to consume his mouth with growing intensity.  Her own hands made their clumsy way from his face to his neck, over his shoulders and down the length of his body...that is until her fingers found his zip.  As she gently tugged on his bottom lip with her teeth, she slowly pulled down the small metal handle until his trousers fell to the floor, the fabric gathering round his ankles.  He was nude, save for his grey pants. He felt goose bumps travel up the length of his legs, and he mentally insisted they were from the nip in the air.  Breaking lip lock, and now resting forehead to forehead, she placed a single hand on his front, cupping the bulge.  She lifted her head slightly, her eyes coming up to his, and her breath weak.  One finger slipped behind the elastic band when he grabbed her wrist.

“What is it, Sherl?” she whispered, breathless and bit distressed.

“Forgive me, dear, but I am very, very tired.”

“Tired?”

He nodded. “Completely knackered, I’m afraid.”

“Knackered?”

Yes, knackered.  _Had this woman turned into a parrot?_

“My apologies,” he said, raising a hand to her face, and gently stroking her cheek with his thumb.  “It can’t be easy going out with a detective, I imagine.”

She took a hard breath and lowered her head, clearly disappointed, and took a step back without answering.

He reached for her hand, and then lifted her chin until they were eye to eye.  “Don’t be cross.”

“I’m not,” she said, and gave him a little smile.  “Sleep well.”

“Thank you,” he said.  “We’ll talk later?”

She nodded, and then rose on her tiptoe, gracing his forehead with one more peck, before opening the bedroom door and leaving.  A moment later, he heard the front door open and close.

As soon as she was gone, he grabbed his gown and left his room, headed for his desk; he had work to do.


	3. Chapter 3

It was the following night when Sherlock awoke to the sound of someone knocking on the door.  Always a fitful sleeper, and even more so when on a case, his dreams were overrun with visions of Appledore.  He imagined himself, unaccompanied, hurriedly thumbing through rows of books, strolling through tucked away corridors and leafing through box after box of illicit paraphernalia appalling enough to topple titans. The sound of thumping infiltrated his slumber.

Upon the realisation that it was only one in the morning, he debated even rising at all, but his intrigue got the better of him.  He lifted his dressing gown from the back of his bedroom door and wrapped it about himself, tying the belt tight.  Before he reached the front door, there was more knocking.  “Coming.”  He looked through the peephole to discover it was...

“Janine?” he said upon opening the door.

Her posture was telling, hunched and small, and she was wearing a rather formal ensemble.  Despite the hour, it was clear she’d just arrived from work.  Her eyes were red, moist and puffy—she’d been crying—and there were red marks on her cheeks and round her eyes, inexplicably, as if she’d been struck in the face.

“How did you get in?” he asked.

“The door was propped open,” she said with a sniffle.  Right.  He’d been expecting someone from the homeless network, but she’d never shown.  So unreliable.  “Can I come in?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, taking her hand and then leading her inside and over to the couch.  She sat down and then resumed sobbing into her hands.  At that moment, she resembled many a client he’d hosted in that very spot.  Sherlock walked to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers, until he finally found some serviettes left over from recent takeaway.  Gathering several, he brought them to her, and she took them appreciatively, dabbing the moisture from her eyes, as he stood nearby, watching.

“What is it?” he asked once she had calmed some.

She kept looking down, fidgeting with the serviettes in her hands.  “I feel silly now that I’m here with you.”

“You shouldn’t do,” he assured her.  “You can be honest with me.”

She shook her head, still trembling and still looking down.  “It’s Magnussen.  He can be so cruel.”

“Cruel?” Sherlock said, drawing closer.  The thought crossed his mind that Magnussen knew they were a couple and so was using his classic tactics of intimidation to get to Sherlock through her.  “Cruel in what way?”

She looked up, about to answer, but then after a moment, she stood instead, and walked over to where he was.  She brought her body very close to his, and then wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing her damp face to his chest.

“I’m so glad I have you to come to,” she said.

He was taken aback by the sudden display of affection and, honestly, still curious about Magnussen’s recent act of alleged cruelty.   It may have been relevant to his investigation with Mrs Smallwood.  He raised his arms, slowly embracing her as well.  “So glad I could _be_ here...for you.”

She spoke again.  “It can be so lonely, going home to an empty flat after a hard day.”She looked up, meeting his eyes. “May I stay here tonight?”

The request was a startling one, but he suspected there was only one correct answer.  “Um, sure.  Yes, of course,” he said.  “One moment.”  He returned to his bedroom and pulled a box from under his bed that contained sheets that he hadn’t used since before his “death.” He pulled out a few and, giving them a sniff, determined that they were a bit stale, but clean.  Spraying them with aftershave, and then wondering why he’d done so, he brought them to Janine, handing them to her in a neatly folded stack.

“You’re welcome to use these,” he said, then motioned towards the couch.  She looked at the cold piece of furniture then back at Sherlock without moving, holding the sheets in her outstretched hands as if they were venomous.  “Sweet dreams,” he said, then kissed her on the cheek and ambled back down the hall.

He hung his robe on the back of the door and was tucking himself in when his phone lit up on the bedside table.  Upon lifting it, he saw that he had a text—from Mycroft.

“Brother Mine,” it read, “due caution: I have it on good information that you’ve been availing yourself of the services of the Underground—never a good sign.”

“For God’s sake, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, “why aren’t you sleeping?” Just then his bedroom door, which was ajar, opened up a bit further. Sherlock was a bit astonished to see Janine’s head peeking through.

“Who are you talking to?” she said. 

Sherlock glared at the phone and back at her.  “My brother, Myc—” he stopped there.  Less information was more.  “My brother.”

“I have a cousin named Mike,” she said, and came fully inside.  Sherlock looked on in surprise, unsure of what she further required.  “I was hoping that maybe I could...bunk with you.”

He gave his bed a quick scan and turned back at her. “Um, yes, of course,” he said, reaching out to her while mentally resigning himself to the idea of having a bedmate. “How could I be so inconsiderate?”

“Great!” she said, smiling widely, and then reached for Sherlock’s outstretched hand as she moved towards the bed.  “I sleep like a kitten,” she assured him as she sat down, her bum landing just in front of his knee. “I hardly move at all.  You may forget that I’m even here.”  Then, letting his hand go, she began to undress as Sherlock lay watching.  The room was dark, but whenever she tilted her head, her face caught a bit of the light coming in through the window from the lamppost outside.  She removed her shoes, first, then her tights.  Her fitted suit jacket came off next, followed by her blouse, and then her pencil skirt until all was left were her lavender bra and matching knickers.  She then rose, folding the items and placing them in a nearby chair.  Sherlock’s eyes followed her as she unclasped her jewellery—earrings, bracelet, necklace—and set them on top of the pile.  The last woman he’d seen nude had been The Woman, and he was taken at how different the female form could be.  Janine was soft-bodied and curvaceous with ample bosom, and she walked in pert, spirited steps—unlike the serpentine movements of Irene. And yet, she was no less possessed of feminine allure.

She turned to him.  “Have a shirt I might slip on?” she asked, briskly rubbing her arms.  “It’s a bit chilly.”

“In the wardrobe,” he said with a bob of his head, and she walked over, inspecting her options.  She found them lacking.

“No T-shirts, then?” she asked.

“I rarely use them.”

“Very well,” she said, and he thought she was going to avail herself of one of his collared shirts, but instead, came to bed just as she was.  “We’ve got each other to keep us warm.” She approached the far side of the bed, which had plenty of space for one, but was scarcely big enough for two.  Flat on his back, Sherlock lifted his arm, a silent invitation, and she lay down, resting her head on his shoulder and under his chin.  Their bodies were necessarily pressed together if they both would fit—a detail Janine seemed to like.  She draped an arm over his body and snuggled in under his embrace for the night.

And then there was silence.

Welcomed silence, in fact, and Sherlock began to think that his private reservations had been unfounded, that perhaps this would be a chaste, one-off, sleeping arrangement and all she simply wanted was a cuddle and nothing more.

Then he felt a hand on his thigh.

There was one additional detail.

“You’re nude.”

“I’m wearing a watch.”

“But other than the w—”

“Yes. I’m nude.”

“I noticed when we embraced.”

“Nice deduction.”

“Thanks,” she said, pride in her voice.  “Of course, there was plenty to deduce.”

His only response to the cheeky quip was a nearly imperceptible twitch of his lip.  He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come when she spoke again.

“I missed you today,” she said.

“My apologies,” he said.  “My work has been—”

“It’s fine,” she said, then turned her head up, looking at him.  Her black eyes were even blacker in the darkness.  “This is nice.”

“Yes, it is.”

Her body shifted.  “Although, I do get the feeling that I’m overdressed,” she said, a sleepy smile crossing her lips.  “Maybe I should change into something more appropriate for the occasion.” She was staring at his mouth.

“How do you mean?” he asked.

She reached over and took both of his hands, gently bringing them around to the closure on the back of her bra.  Sherlock’s mind stalled in a limbo state, but his fingers sallied forth, undoing one, then two, then three clasps.  She let out deep, trembling sigh as the fabric fell away, and she pulled the straps down from her shoulders, tossing the undergarment behind her to the floor.  Her aforementioned breasts—round and full—lay bare before him as she propped herself up on her elbow.  He pulled his eyes away from them and up to her eyes, still puffy from her previous tears, but their sadness had been replaced with something much more serene...and impish.  She took his hand and placed it on top of her bosom.

“Is this better?” she asked.

He sat motionless, not answering.

Her hand ducked under the covers and resumed its position on his thigh, this time gently caressing the soft skin.

“Janine,” he said, a bit sterner than he meant to.

“ _Oooh_ ,” she said with a flirty giggle.  “I don’t like the tone of your voice, mister.” She sat up a bit then pulled her hand up the length of his body and up to his neck and she lowered her head for a furtive kiss, her lips grazing his.

“Janine,” he said again, but this time it was different somehow.  He pulled his hand away from her breast and brought it down to the bed.  “You should know...”  He trailed off.

Her shoulders slumped.  “What should I know?”

“You should know I’ve taken a tablet.”

Her eyes wandered down the bed in the vicinity of his loins then back up at Sherlock, with a hopeful expression. “What kind of tablet?”

“A tablet to help me sleep.  I’m something of an insomniac,” he said.  “The tablet...has some undesired effects.”

She looked at him for several seconds, disappointment creeping into her face.

“I see,” she said with a bit of a sigh.  She lowered herself back to the bed, and they lay pressed together, shoulder to shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Janine,” he said, turning to her.  “I wasn’t aware you’d be stopping by.”

“Neither did I,” she said, and some of the edge left her voice.  She turned to him, something knowing in her eye.  “It’s fine, really,” she said.  “Whatever it is, it’s fine.  Everything in its time.”

* * *

“Shezza?  Shezza?  Shezza?”

Sherlock began to stir at the sound of his, well, “name,” and grimaced against the flood of light invading his eyes.  Squinting, he recognised the man hovering over him as the gentleman so kindly serving as this drug den’s doorman. “Hm?”

“Some bloke come looking for you,” he said.  “Says he come to bring your shit, but I ran him off, dint I?  You always come with your own.”

 _Curious_.  “What did he look like?”

“Dunno.  Tallish, I think.  Really pale. Red hair. Or maybe blond. No, bru—”

“Was he wearing a black bracelet?” Sherlock asked, having heard enough.

“Come to think of it, yeah, he was.”

Sherlock got a faraway look.  “Excellent.”

“Why’s that excellent?”

Sherlock sat up, almost falling off the edge of the mattress.  “What time is it?”

“Almost seven.  Why’s that excellent?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just got up and headed for the stairs.

“You’re off then?” the doorman said, but Sherlock kept going.

Once outside, he leisurely walked the three streets north to where he would catch his taxi.  It should give whomever was following him ample time to get the desired shot.  He was hardly a street away from the house when he saw a young man with a black, plastic wristband lurking between buildings with a camera.  “Make sure you get my right side!” Sherlock yelled.  “It’s much more photogenic.”

* * *

Despite Sherlock’s alleged status as a minor London celebrity, he found that his fame tended to peak when his cases peaked, and immediately faded away just as quickly as it had come.  Besides, living in one of the great cities of the world—populated by true superstars in every sphere from sport to music to fashion—meant the paparazzi usually had their hands full chasing much more lucrative targets.  So when Sherlock found himself in the crosshairs of one of Magnussen’s army of black-banded photographers—who collectively had a reputation of somehow being impervious to legal complaints—he was sure his exposure as a drug addict was imminent.  This meant that, more than ever, he needed Janine on his side.

Three missed calls from her and seven unanswered text messages, however, might have put this bond in jeopardy.

He was standing in the reception of the building that housed CAM Global News.  Modern, airy, bright and obscenely cathedral-esque, it was the temple at which Magnussen demanded the worship of his coerced parishioners.  Sherlock only had to wait a couple of minutes before he saw the object of his, well, _attention_ descending the magnificent staircase.  He stood, meeting her at the bottom.  She wasn’t exactly glad to see him.

“I’m working, you know,” she said. “You should know all about that.”

“I do know,” he said, contrite, “and I was hoping we could have lunch together to make up for my neglect—you and I.”

“Contrary to what you might believe,” she said, “I have a very demanding job. If I get 20 minutes for lunch, it’s a good day.  Today is not a good day.”

“I understand,” he said, “but we don’t have to go far—the canteen will do.”  She didn’t say anything.  “I miss you, Janine.”

She tilted her head, her stern expression slowly fading into a smile. Then, she noticed something.  “What you got there behind your back?”

Sherlock brought his arm around to reveal a fistful of 18 red roses bound together with a pink, velvet bow. 

“Sherlock!” she gasped, clutching her chest.  Several persons turned to stare at the display, and Janine began to giggle in spite of herself. She took them from his hand, sniffing them.  “They are beautiful.”

“As are you,” he said.

She sighed.  “Follow me.”

* * *

It was only a few minutes after twelve, meaning the canteen was overrun with employees ranging from cleaners to executives.  Sat by the far wall, Sherlock had a perfect view of the burgeoning crowds.  He didn’t know who, so much as _what_ he was looking for: the abandoned handbag, the ringing mobile phone, the boisterous conversation, the screeching chair.  All were distractions; all were opportunities to steal the item he coveted most: a key card to the building.

“Sherl?” she said. 

Sherlock turned back to Janine squeezing the hand he was holding, the one she wasn’t eating with.

“Yes?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Absolutely,” he said.  “Margaret always sends the requisitions out late, so your supply chain runs behind putting you in trouble with the legal team on the next floor.”

“Yes,” she said, taking a sip of her water.  “It’s rather frustrating.”

“I can only imagine,” he said.

She took another bite of her salad.  “Why didn’t you get anything to eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” he said.  He never was when he was working.  “I might have a stomach bug.”

“You don’t take care of yourself,” she said.  “I think...”

As she talked on, Sherlock spotted it—or her, rather: a woman balancing just one too many items on her way to her table, and she was heading in his direction.  Just as she was passing, he stuck out his foot.

Several plates filled with tikka masala, grilled chicken, roast pork and a ham sandwich, a couple of bread rolls, three jellies, four drinks, and about 100 serviettes went flying, leaping into the air and tumbling to the floor.  Sherlock jumped up to help.

“I’m sorry.  I’m so, so sorry,” the young woman chanted again and again, truly horrified.  “I am so clumsy.”

“Think nothing of it,” Sherlock assured her, and Janine rose to assist as well.  “At least no one was hurt.”

Within a couple of minutes, the mess was cleaned up and the canteen staff even offered to replace her food.

“Thank you,” she said as she went to leave.

“No,” Sherlock said. “Thank _you_.”

* * *

The following day came, and with it, Sherlock’s continued triple-life charade as Shezza (the junkie), Sherl (Janine’s boyfriend), and occasionally he even got to be Sherlock Holmes—the world’s only consulting detective.  He’d seen less and less of Sherlock of late, however, as Janine had taken to stopping by almost daily—for tea, for advice, for a cuddle...for a bath.  Meanwhile, a full week had gone by since his encounter with the photographer, and Sherlock’s “secret” had remained unrevealed.

Until, that is, he was happened upon by a certain John Watson.

The chance meeting had set in motion a blistering chain of events and, two hours later, he was back at Baker Street having a bath—albeit one that was won at great cost.  Even so, the combined effects of Mycroft’s prying, three egregious slaps from Molly Hooper, and (most importantly!), Sherlock’s highly-anticipated meeting with Magnussen just three hours away were all serving to diminish his morphine-induced haze, and the billowing steam coming from his bathtub promised to be revitalising. As the bathwater became increasingly frothier, Sherlock hooked his oversized hoodie on the back of the door, and left his equally voluminous shirt and tracksuit bottoms—along with his socks and pants—tossed into the corner.  His naked body stepped into the bathtub, sank down into the water, and pulled the curtain closed.  He reclined his head against the cool tiles and was savouring the restful moment, when there was a knock on the door.  Not a second later, it opened.

“Morning!” Janine said with her customary jollity. John must have seen her— _damn_.  “Room for a little one?”

Sherlock pulled back the shower curtain—with the sound of hooks scraping against the rusted metal rod—to reveal a scene of his girlfriend removing...his shirt, which, in the end, had become her preferred sleepwear.

“Morning,” he said, as her knickers joined his pile of attire on the floor.  The bathroom was small, and she was close enough for him to reach out and grab her dangling arm, which elicited a squeal and giggle.  She excitedly lowered herself into the frothy bath, settling in between his legs.

“You’ve time for a bath?” he asked.

“Not really,” she said, turning her face back towards his.  “But I can’t resist, can I?”

“Apparently not,” he said. They shared a kiss before she turned back round, snuggling between his arms. 

“Lovely sound to wake up to this morning,” she said.  “You and Mike fighting.”

“Sorry about that,” Sherlock said, instantly infuriated at the recollection.  “He shouldn’t have been here.”

“Does he just let himself in like that?”

“All the time,” Sherlock said, leaning his head back once again, and closing his eyes.  “He’s an unrepentant snoop and incurable control freak.”

“Poor Sherl,” she said with a cluck, and turned back to him with a pitying expression, poking out her bottom lip.  “Well, we can’t have you ill-tempered and cross in the morning, can we?”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he sat up a bit.  “ _Janine_ ,” he said sternly with raised brows, fully aware of where this was going.  A smirk crossed her face.

“Let’s find your tickly bits.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

Undeterred she slowly walked two fingers down his leg. “Is there one...here?” she said, wriggling a finger in the bend of his knee.  He jerked away, stifling a snicker.

“Janine,” he pleaded.

“And what about... _here?_ ” she said, tickling tender flesh just above his hip.

His body convulsed, sending a burst of soapy bubbles in the air, and a snort from his nose.  He grabbed her hand as Janine giggled in delight. “Janine, _please_ ,” he begged.

Evading his grip, she used her other hand to poke at his ribs, and took on a sing-song voice.  “I think we found a tickly bit,” she sang, and at her touch, Sherlock collapsed into the water, writhing and laughing loudly in spite of himself, sending a spray of water splashing over the side of the tub. Janine threw a hand over his mouth, thoroughly amused.

“Sherlock!” she whispered.  “Quiet, or John will hear.”

Just then there was the sound of a creaking floorboard outside the bathroom door.

“Whose fault is that?” Sherlock said.  She looked at him sheepishly, and turned back around trying not to laugh.  She shifted her weight a little, sinking down until she was completely submerged in the sudsy waters, and Sherlock he did the same, until they were practically in a reclining position, her head resting lazily against his bare chest.  His toes pressed against the far wall of the tub.

“John’s making coffee,” she said at last, and rested an elbow on his knee.

“Hm,” he said.

She turned back at him. “What is it?”

“He’s rubbish at coffee. His tea is better.”

“Noted,” she said, then paused a beat.  “Where were you last night?” she asked, and her tone was surprisingly free of suspicion.  He evaded the question.

“Did you rest well?” he asked, one of the many queries he’d accumulated to use in such moments.

“I did,” she said, “although, I’d have much preferred to have you there next to me.”

“As would I have,” he replied.

They didn’t speak again for several minutes, sharing only silent discourse. Sherlock sat motionless, his arms crossed in front of them both.  She lifted one of his hands, tracing his long, sinewy fingers with her own much more delicate digits, before threading her shrivelling fingers through his.

“Sherl?” she said.

“Hm?” was his groggy reply.

“When I first met you, I got a completely different impression of what you might be like.”

“How so?”

She paused a while before answering, and didn’t really, in the end.

“Why did you leave the wedding early?”

There was a long silence.  “Why do you ask?”

“I thought,” she said, then stopped.  “I thought you hated romance, or love, or...feelings. I thought you were all brains and no heart.”

It was a deduction that was almost certainly the truth—and assuredly so once upon a time—although, it didn’t seem _quite_ right anymore, somehow.  “What do you think now?” he asked.

She twirled his fingers in her own as she answered.  “I think I was wrong.”  She looked back at him, with a face of uncommon sincerity and calm.  “These last few weeks have been lovely, Sherlock.”

He didn’t say anything.  She turned back round, tranquilly brewing in the comforting bath until the water began to go cold.

“I best be going soon,” she said, rising, and turned on the showerhead, the water raining down on them.  It cascaded down the crown of her head, through her dark tresses, and over her soft body.  She talked as she wrung out her hair.  “And what shall we be doing today, Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock thought of his brother and John, the morphine and the letters, Lady Smallwood and Charles Magnussen.  He thought of Janine.  Then, clearing his throat, he ran a hand through his wet hair.  “Shopping,” was his only reply.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and for your generous feedback.


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